


Far Too Fond

by Hobbitrocious



Series: The Bruschetta Universe (Don't Ask) [1]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (Downey films)
Genre: Abandonment Issues, Angst, Depression, Heartbroken Sherlock, Married Mary Morstan/John Watson, Other, Pining, Suicidal Thoughts, Unresolved Romantic Tension, male anorexia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-14
Updated: 2015-05-14
Packaged: 2018-03-30 14:11:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3939760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hobbitrocious/pseuds/Hobbitrocious
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set at end of Movie 1. When the high subsides after solving the Blackwood case, Holmes is left to his own devices. Watson has just moved out, and Holmes' thoughts turn bleak - what is he without his Boswell?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Far Too Fond

**Author's Note:**

> Written a few years ago, posted to LiveJournal, and self-despleted like everything else I posted over there. This story has ties to The Bruschetta Universe, which is altogether such a hodgepodge of fandoms and timelines that I'm sure you guys must be confused as heck how it all ties in. (Sorry.) 
> 
> Each fic should hopefully be able to stand on its own, though. What ties them together is the place they come from, moreso than any one theme they share.
> 
> Although this is the fourth story I'm adding to Bruschetta, I'm placing it first because it was one of the first written, back when most of the catalysing emotions poured into the later stories took place.
> 
> NOTE: THE FINAL LINE OF THIS STORY IS AN *OPTIONAL* ENDING. Skip it/don't count it if you want less angst!
> 
> (In my own mind, the final line is just Holmes' own pessimism talking in the moment. It eventually becomes untrue.)

_He's far too fond of himself for that._

Watson's warm voice and Mary's reined-in laughter lingered with Holmes long after the front door shut and the carriage pulled noisily away with the engaged couple and the last of the doctor's belongings.

In a few weeks, after all was settled and the opportunity for Gladstone to be a nuisance underfoot was gone, Watson would take their dog too. It would just be Holmes and Nanny left, Holmes acknowledged with distaste.

The remnants of the noose, fraying where the rope met with Watson's military sword, scratched Holmes' palms. Holmes worried it in his hands as he sat, losing himself in thought, barely feeling the repetitive, twisting, prickling abrasion.

The sensation was just enough to keep him in the present, not enough to hurt. He would have time to feel the rawness of his skin later.

Plenty of time. Plenty of alone time.

Watson's warm voice and Mary's reined-in laughter taunted Holmes long after dark fell and the detective's drenched eyes were rimmed with red.

* * *

_I am pitiful,_ was one of the few complete sentences to make its meandering way through the foggy maze of Holmes' drunken mind.

A single candle flickered behind him in the mirror, shadows danced over the frayed half of a noose in his hands. His palms, indeed, were raw; shallow, brown scabs criss-crossed his skin. Blood, in trace amounts, dried on the rope.

 _There is more rope_ , was his next concrete thought, when the notion of trying to repair the first deadly cord was instantly dismissed as untenable. 

Then Holmes' mind regained some of its usual speed. _There are bedclothes. There are kitchen knives. There are caustic solutions, poisons._

Holmes also immediately dismissed flammables. Such a method of demise was liable to destroy his life's work surrounding him as well as the body.

The body.

When news reached Cavendish Place, would Watson first be told his dear friend passed sometime in the night, or would he be asked impersonally to come examine the body?

Holmes would well be just another crime scene, his body the clue to his life; his mortal absence testament to the limits Watson's treatment of him had passed.

 _I am abandoned_.

* * *

Morning came and saw Holmes curled on the floor, between an armchair and the wall, wearing the frayed noose in his sleep. One sleeve was crusted in snot and tears, both hands were stiff and clasped around an empty, open vial that Watson would later count missing from his heavy, black Gladstone bag.

Missus Hudson bustling about on the lower floor finally stirred Holmes.

Holmes' head pounded. His dry throat itched even as his nose ran. His eyes ached. His neck ached. His hands ached. His heart ached.

"I wear the mantle of the coward well," Holmes sat up and muttered to himself. His muscles protesting, he grasped the noose and lifted it from his neck. He tossed it half-heartedly atop some ever present stacks of old post.

A coward for desiring a swift end, or a coward for failing to execute that end; Holmes could not decide which he was.

_"He's far too fond of himself for that."_

Watson, surely, for all his fervent infatuation with Mary, would still weep over Holmes' lifeless corpse. 

The pain of Watson leaving, Holmes reasoned, was pain enough. If Watson were to die, Holmes would be all the more lost. Too strong a pain for Holmes himself to bear he would not inflict on Mother Hen.

Holmes laughed softly at the useless loop of rope and murmured, "I despise myself far too much for that."

* * *

Were Holmes to end himself, he could not suffer.

Were Holmes unable to suffer, he would likely be in a state unable to think, as well. In death, thinking and suffering and watching the living were highly unlikely to take place.

So Holmes would suffer this black mood, and it would be his price for cowardice. To keep on living would be his silent, unnoticed gift to Watson.

It would be to spare Watson the required mourning and spare Mycroft the cost of a coffin and service, at any rate. Holmes felt as good as dead, but he could at least ensure his impact was minimal whilst still alive to control such measures.

Following this reasoning, the importance of the role of food increased. Holmes would take less of it, and would reduce his effect on Missus Hudson's day.

Not to mention fewer meals brought to the upstairs rooms meant Holmes would not have to deal with the woman as often. He could enjoy more privacy now that Watson was gone.

Holmes crawled across the floor and turned the key in the lock to make sure.

Seated there with his back against the door to the landing, Holmes floated and lost himself within his mind once again.

* * *

"For God's sake," Missus Hudson yelled at Holmes through the door, "send the dog out before you starve him!"

Holmes had only briefly taken into consideration that if he barred all food from his rooms and did not eat, Gladstone would not eat either. After three days, Holmes found solace in the familiar tightness of his empty stomach, the heightened acuity of a system unladen by the burden of digestion.

Gladstone, the blubbery mutt, Holmes figured, could survive at least another week sustained on his own mass.

Nanny pounded on the door. 

"Let the poor animal out," she yelled, sounding a bit more desperate.

With a sigh and a roll of his eyes, Holmes tromped to where Gladstone napped. Holmes toed the dog awake with his house slipper. Gladstone grumped and snorted, but only turned a circle and set himself back down, accustomed to sleeping through the ruckus.

Agitated by the constant pounding from Missus Hudson's side of the wall, Holmes released a frustrated, wordless shout. He set to work scooting Gladstone across the floor with his foot.

Missus Hudson was quite appalled to see the door quickly open and the spotted bull pup sail through it, propelled by Holmes' leg. The door slammed again in her face.

She took the dazed canine downstairs and kept Gladstone, Holmes' last piece of Watson, with her for his remaining two and a half weeks at Baker Street.

... Except, Gladstone wasn't quite Holmes' last piece of Watson. The too-long shirt caked in the products of Holmes' episodic weeping was.

He wore it for six more days.

By then, Holmes reeked. He smelled of fear, of sorrow, of neglect.

He considered a bath, but, in the end, simply balled up his clothes and tossed them into a corner. He wrapped himself in his housecoat after that and padded about the flat barefoot.

His every breath, by now, filled his mouth with a softly sweet, comforting taste. It was a special taste that only came once Holmes had starved himself long enough. It was, to him, a sign of his body accepting separation from its dependence on food. It was a rewarding taste, and eating only made it disappear.

Holmes' stomach growled, so he packed and lit a pipe. Smoking was also more effective in calming his nerves when his belly was empty.

He puffed on his shag and let his thoughts wander to less troublesome times, times before Miss Mary Morstan. 

Times before Watson.

* * *

"A pot of tea once a day?" Watson repeated, astonished. Not that he should have been surprised, considering, well, _Holmes_.

Missus Hudson nodded and added, "I've tried bringing meals to him. He always ruins the food beyond eating. He's destroyed two of my dishes with acids... never touched a bite, as far as I can tell."

Gladstone fidgeted on the end of his leash. Watson glanced distractedly to the upstairs landing.

He said, apologetically, "I do have to be home tonight, but I promise I'll look in on him soon."

"Please do, Doctor," Missus Hudson said, her face drawn and full of worried creases.

"Of course."

With a wistful smile and a faint tip of his hat, Watson led the dog out and set off for home.

He never did return.


End file.
